Unopened
by GrimSqeaker
Summary: Years after, the letter still hasn't been read. And now time has run out.


_Another oneshot from me. This one was inspired by the song "Unopened" by Sonata Arctica (actually, I think it's a cover, but I don't know the original band/artist). I didn't include the lyrics for several reasons. One being that I always skip lyrics in a songfic because I'd want to know the music that goes with them. Another is that I'm not sure how well the lyrics fit anyway. They might have inspired this piece, but I never intended to use them in it. A third is because songfics aren't allowed at anyway._

_Not as good as my other two in my opinion, but it works._

_**Disclaimer:** If I owned them, I wouldn't be here writing fanfics_.

* * *

His eyes fell upon the old envelope, addressed to a city across the country. The stamp mark told anyone who was interested that it had been fifteen years since the letter had gone through the machinery that was the country's mail-delivery. And for fifteen years, the letter had been pinned up on the door to the fridge, waiting to be opened.

Today, he regretted never opening it. It didn't matter what was written anymore. Or at least that was what he wanted to tell himself. Of course it still mattered.

His three-fingered hand trembled when he reached out towards the envelope. With a shaky breath, he removed the magnet that held it in place. The law of gravity kicked in instantly, and the piece of paper fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up before he could rethink this _again_.

He stopped himself, his hand only an inch above the envelope. The person who wrote the letter had put their own address on this side, a side he hadn't even looked at in ten years.

The name was familiar, and yet it felt as if it had been an eternity since he had last seen it. It had too, in a way. Written with delicate, narrowed letters, it reminded him of why he had never read the letter. It also reminded him why he had never thrown it away. Because he had promised himself that one day, he would be strong enough, brave enough, to read it.

Taking a deep breath, he let his green fingers grab a corner of the not-quite-white piece of paper. He didn't take his eyes off it as he sat down by the kitchen-table. There, he laid it in front of him, with his own name and old address facing upwards.

For some reason, his former address was written by another hand. Probably because the sender had gotten it from someone else. He knew who it was too, he recognized this handwriting. He would recognize Mickey's handwriting anywhere.

With a deep, yet slightly unstable breath, he took the knife lying on the table and prepared to rip the envelope open.

_With a glance at the digital watch next to his bed, he let out a sigh. The red, blinking numbers read 02:04. Only one person would call him at this time of the night. Only one person he knew didn't pay attention to time zones and the likes._

_He sighed and grabbed the phone, putting it to his ear._

"_I'll call you back in the morning, Mikey," he told his brother firmly._

"_It's me," a raspy voice said on the other end before he got the chance to hang up._

"_Raph?"_

_Well, of course he could also mess up the time difference, or it could be an emergency. Actually, it probably was an emergency, otherwise his hotheaded brother wouldn't call._

"_What is it?" he asked, now sitting straight up in his bed._

_There was a moment's hesitation before Raphael spoke again._

"_Have you read the letter yet?" he asked._

The phone-call from Raph had come five hours ago, and how he had known about the letter, Don didn't know. Only now did he have the strength to actually look at the piece of paper that had taunted him for so many years. Or at least he hoped he did.

It was pathetic, really. He had fought ninjas, battled evil overlords from other worlds, faced monsters from the deep of the earth, he had ruled over the life and death of his brothers on several occasions, and yet this little piece of paper had him terrified.

Thing was, in this letter the most important question he had ever asked anyone would be answered. Fifteen years ago he had written a letter to someone and poured his deepest secret into it. And when the answer arrived, he hadn't dared read it.

It had been April's idea, of course. 'Write her a letter and tell her how you feel.' And he had, convinced that she could never feel the same way about him. How could she have?

_As he entered the diner, he instantly spotted a vacant table. He also spotted the young woman on her way to it. Not in the mood to wait around for someone else to leave, he hurried over to the table and sat down by it just before the woman got there._

_She sighed deeply and looked around in the crowded room for another vacant table. He was also looking for one now, as his conscience had caught up with him. Stealing the table from this woman, who had obviously seen it first, hadn't been the nicest thing he had ever done._

_No other tables seemed available, and no guests seemed to be leaving anytime soon. It left him with two choices, of which he knew most people wouldn't even consider one._

"_You are free to join me," he suggested, forcing the words out of his mouth even as his eyes found the table. "I… I mean, you can have the table, if you want," he corrected himself as he remembered how most people reacted to him and his brothers._

"_Thank you," she said softly and sat down across from him._

"_You saw it first," he answered her even as he got up._

"_No. Please stay," she begged him._

_He sat down again and looked at her this time. She looked strict and businesslike, with her dark hair cut short and her white blouse buttoned all the way up to her neck._

"_Thanks. People usually want us as far away from their tables as possible," he told her._

"_People usually aren't concerned by stealing tables from strangers either," she replied with a smile. "What's your name?"_

"_Don."_

"_I'm Karen. Nice to meet you, Don."_

He hadn't expected to meet the female lawyer again, seeing as New York was a big city. He didn't really think about meeting her again either. However, it hadn't even taken a week before they had bumped into each other again, this time at the mall.

And then, some way or another, they had become friends. From friends, they had gone to close friends, and from there Don's feelings had grown. Then came the day when April had persuaded him to tell her, which he had done in a letter, since his job had forced him to move to Chicago by then. No, he knew that using the distance as an excuse for writing the letter was wrong. He should have told her on the phone, at least. But he hadn't, because he had been too afraid of what she might say.

The former ninja sighed deeply and considered not reading the letter. It wasn't as if it would matter anyway. He couldn't go back and change anything; he couldn't talk to her anymore. Death sort of prevented that.

That had been the reason for Ralph's call. Karen had died that night, having slipped down the stairs outside her apartment and snapped her neck in the fall. A stupid way to go. No chance of defending yourself, no honor…

He stopped his thoughts with a sigh. Not everyone had been raised by a ninja master and trained in the art of ninjitsu.

His brown eyes focused on the now open envelope. For fifteen years it had been closed, her response to his emotions hidden behind the thin wall of a paper. Now it was open, and yet he still hesitated to take out the letter. Would her answer, whatever it may be, help him in any way?

No. It wouldn't. She was gone, and whatever she had written wouldn't matter any more.

His vision became blurred again, for what felt like the hundredth time this morning… this night. One of his best friends, the woman he loved, was gone. Dead. Killed by ice and stairs.

Suddenly, he felt the need to know just what she had written. He needed to know if he had missed out on something, needed to know just what the stairs and the ice took from him.

With almost furious determination, he took the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it. Halfway through the first paragraph, the tears were running freely down his face. As he reached the end of the letter, he buried his face in his palms, letting fifteen years of regret, fear and self-inflicted rejection mix with the fresh grief.

The last line in the letter would forever be attached to his inner eye.

_Love you always._

_Karen_

* * *

_Constructive critisism welcome._


End file.
